


Je te French

by Northern_Star



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-24
Updated: 2011-07-24
Packaged: 2017-10-21 17:46:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northern_Star/pseuds/Northern_Star
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a kiss. A French kiss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Je te French

**Author's Note:**

> a belated birthday present for [](http://schnuffichen.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://schnuffichen.livejournal.com/)**schnuffichen**. It's not quite what you had asked for, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway. *hugs*

Mike pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and quickly taps the screen to retrieve the message that just came in. It's just a short three-word question, " _Où es-tu_?" from Max Lapierre, the only person he knows who always insists on using French, even when Mike doesn't quite understand the messages.

It comes as a bit of a surprise as they haven't spoken a lot since Max got traded, first to Anaheim, then Vancouver, and even less since the playoffs ended. They never really had all that much in common, save for those French "tutoring" sessions that Max had insisted Mike needed, but which, in retrospect, hadn't consisted of much French at all, save for the kissing. Max being sent off to the other end of the continent had put an end to all of that, of course. It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time, really since it was simply a casual "because we can" thing in the first place. However, seeing the message on his phone display now, Mike realizes that maybe he's missed it after all, including these random text messages he doesn't always understand.

For a moment he wonders if he should answer in English because it's faster, or in some form of mangled French because it's what Max is no doubt expecting him to do. He settles on an easy one word answer, " _Maison_ ," which is not only quick, but also something he knows how to spell; in essence, the best of both worlds. He really never did learn much French at all during these sessions they had, and the only thing he's really gained any proficiency in is definitely not the sort of stuff he'd want to put on his resume.

The phone rings, not ten seconds later. "Dans quelle ville?" says Max. "Which city? Montréal or Toronto?"

"Montreal. There's a—"

Max cuts him off immediately. "Is anyone with you?"

"Nope," Mike replies in a chuckle. He can tell from the sounds of traffic on the other end of the line that Max is in his car, and more than likely on his way there already. "How far away are you?"

"Just got off Notre-Dame," says Max. Then laughing he adds, "I'll be there before you remember how to say ' _nice to see you again_ ' in French."

And as a matter of fact, just shy of five minutes later, Max is standing right outside the door. He's dressed in jeans and sneakers, and a tight-fitting olive t-shirt. It's kind of odd to see him here like that, but then a slow smile starts spreading on his lips and even though it's been months since they've seen one another, everything sort of falls into place again.

"Do you remember?" Max asks, walking in.

"Mm? What exactly? The last time you were here?"

Max shakes his head, chuckling. "Non, non," he says, "Did you have time to remember how to say ' _nice to see you again_ '?"

"I might have," Mike replies, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "if you'd ever taught me how to say it in the first place. In fact, I don't think you ever taught me any useful French at all."

"What do you mean, I never taught you anything useful?" Max asks, laughing. "Of course I did," he adds, stepping in a little closer. "This, for example..."

He leans in, pressing their lips together in a kiss, in just the same way he's done it before, perhaps a million times. The angle of his head, the pressure of his lips, the way his tongue gently demands entry, it's exactly the same as Mike remembers from the last time they kissed. From every time they've ever kissed. It's as if Max had never left; as if it was just yesterday that they last made out, in the sauna at the team training facility in Brossard, when it's actually been over six months since then.

"You didn't teach me _that_ , silly," Mike tells him. "You know very well that you weren't the first person I'd ever kissed."

"Well maybe not," says Max, a goofy smile on his lips, "but you have to admit I'm the best one."

Mike breathes a quick, "Yeah," then reaches up again and whispers, "Yeah, you probably are," as he locks their lips together again.

Slowly, he slides his hands under the soft fabric of Max's shirt, feeling warm skin and smooth muscle. Max hums in appreciation, burying his hands in the backpockets of Mike's jeans and gently squeezing his ass, pulling him as close as he can. Mike feels as Max starts growing harder against his hip, and he smiles into their kiss. Oh yeah, everything is back to normal again.

They're both breathing hard by the time they pull apart. Max rests his forehead against Mike's and chuckles a little as he says, "See, if you're this good now, it's because I showed you how."

Mike can help but laugh. "Huh uh."

"What?" says Max, stepping back just a little. "You think you could have learned this from some English bloke in Toronto?" he asks, an eyebrow raised in mock challenge.

Mike rolls his eyes a little, laughing. "It takes a French man to properly teach the art of the French kiss. I know. _Je sais_." He grabs Max by the hand and pulls him toward the bedroom, adding, "Come on, let's see what else you think you can teach me, _maudit Français_."

  
- > End.


End file.
